


No Sanctuary

by Bullfinch



Series: After Kirkwall [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Game, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-DA2. Nearly captured by soldiers in the Anderfels, Hawke and Fenris flee to a Tevinter-owned island, seeking refuge. Then Fenris disappears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this a long-ass time ago and...it's very obvious. The series gets better as it goes on! I promise.
> 
> Additional note: if you’ve never been near a salt marsh, they do not smell very nice. Just take my word for it. Finally, there's no sex in this story, in case you were expecting it.

"Where are we going?"

Hawke lets out the mainsheet, and the boom swings a few inches, the dirty white sail luffing once before filling with air. "Emirius."

The night breeze is inconstant, but it’s enough to keep their little skiff going over the choppy ocean. Fenris peers at the compass, illuminated by his glowing tattoos. "Never heard of it."

"It's an island." Hawke pauses. "Tevinter-owned."

Fenris closes his hand over the compass.

"I don't have any better ideas. I'm sorry, Fenris."

It's hard to see Hawke's face in the darkness, but Fenris can just make out the stony set of Hawke's mouth, the coolness in his eyes. It's necessary. One of them has to be able to keep a level head, and Fenris has a temper that doesn't take much to go off but takes a lot more to wrestle under control. He remembers Varric telling him,  _Look, pal, you're a bone-dry pasture on the hottest day of the year. Stay away from sparks._

Varric. Fenris hopes the dwarf's all right, wherever he is. "I understand." He slumps further against the side of the little boat. "Just…you've never spent time in Tevinter, have you?"

"No, never."

"You may find it...jarring." Fenris smiles without humor. If his anger is a brush fire, Hawke's is a mudslide. A hundred tons of solid earth to crush anyone who gets in the way without even slowing down. And nothing sets him off like slavers.

Hawke heaves a sigh. "Yes. Fenris…"

"Hm?"

For a moment Hawke doesn't say anything. Fenris knows why. What is there to say?  _I'm sorry the Tevinters see you as a lesser creature whose only worth lies in serving others?_  Ridiculous. It's not Hawke's fault, and there's nothing he can do about it.

"I love you."

Fenris gazes at the compass again, listens to the slop of water against the hull of the boat. "I know."

——

The city takes up half the island.

Maybe more. There's not many lights on at this time of night, but Fenris can see rows of buildings curving around the base of the mountain to the other side. The city is set into the mountain itself, and tiered, with massive stone walls separating each level. LIkely separating the social strata, too. Although there's only three tiers. So the elves get lumped in with the merchants. Not surprising. Any Tevinter who can't do magic is best shunted aside.

The moon hovers halfway up the sky, making its infinitesimal descent. Only a few hours until dawn. A wind blows from around the island, and Fenris catches the scent of…something. Something rotten.

Hawke makes for the darkest area on the shoreline, finding an open dock by the light of the moon. There’s plenty of boats tied off here, and more moored further out. Mostly fishing vessels, from what Fenris can tell. And none in good repair. The upper classes must control all the wealth. Simple fishermen don’t stand a chance. As they come up alongside the dock, Hawke wraps the bowline around his hand and leaps onto the rotting boards, bending to tie the boat off on a post.

The man standing guard onshore plainly wasn't expecting anyone to make landing at this time of night, and he tries to unsheathe the dagger at his belt before Hawke steps in to defuse the situation. He distracts the guard with jokes and chatter while Fenris lifts his purse (Varric was right—with the tattoos, pickpocketing is laughably easy).

It's the dead of night, and they have to walk a while to find someplace with the lights still on. The buildings they pass are shabby, the road more mud than stone. The suspicious glares they get from the few passerbys still awake remind Fenris of Lowtown. It is a small comfort, especially with the vast ocean at his left making him feel utterly exposed. The rotten scent Fenris caught on the skiff is present here, barely, and he thinks he recognizes it—it’s a marsh, a salt marsh. There must be one on the back half of the island. An unfortunate feature. He smiles drily. Can’t imagine the higher classes are too happy about the odor of decay infiltrating their city.

At last Hawke points out a lantern burning above a swinging wooden sign. Fenris's reading comprehension is still so-so but he gets this one: "The Demon's Head Inn." And beneath, an illustration of a severed Qunari head, its eyes bugging, tongue stuck out to one side.

"Tasteful," Hawke mutters.

"You'll see much worse before we leave," Fenris tells him. And pushes the door open.

The bar on the first floor isn't quite empty, a few ragged patrons still hunched over their mugs—a couple of humans in one corner, a couple of elves in the corner opposite. The barkeep is eating a hunk of bread and does not stop as they approach. "What you want?"

Hawke glances at Fenris and steps forward, saying in rocky but passable Tevinter, "A meal. And a room."

"The elf staying here too?"

"Yes."

"Elf housing's another ten."

Hawke rests a hand on the bar. "He can stay in my room."

The barkeep snorts. "No he can't. You think my customers want to see I rent my nice, clean rooms out to elves?"

Hawke looks very calm. Fenris grasps his arm. "Hawke. A moment."

They stand to one side, next to the wall. Hawke folds his arms but says nothing. Because there's nothing to say. "Let it go," Fenris tells him. "This is not a battle worth fighting. It is far more important that we don't make a scene."

He’s silent for a moment, then pushes himself off the wall. “We're leaving this damned island the second we've got enough money."

Off to a poor start already. Fenris has done this before and won't mind slipping back into the old ways for the sake of camouflage—at least not if it's just for a little while—but Hawke's not handling it well at all. He makes light of it with the barkeep, but his smile is empty. Fenris wonders when the last time was he saw Hawke really smile. It used to be all the time, back in Kirkwall. Hawke was the cheeriest killer he'd ever met.

Not anymore.

Hawke returns. "Let's eat."

They sit down at a crumb-scattered table. While they wait, the elves depart, leaving only the two men in the corner and one with his head on the bar who's almost certainly asleep. Fenris thinks about how long he's been awake and realizes he should be falling over right now, but instead he's uncomfortably on edge. It's not just the fact of being hunted—they've been dealing with that for months—it's being back on Tevinter soil. He spent twelve years (that he can recall, anyway) being treated like a lower class of person, so he should be used to it. He remembers how to act, the deferring, the avoidance of confrontation.

But it's been a long time, and it's not as easy to beat himself back down as it used to be.

The food isn't as awful as he had feared, though the wine is worse. But he drinks it anyway. Maybe it'll help him drift off later. He needs the rest. They don't talk much during the meal. Hawke looks defeated. Fenris wants to reassure him but is too distracted by…nothing specific. Just the background noise buzzing in his head. He's an ex-slave again _._  Not a free man, not like in the Marches. Here, even the free elves are looked down upon—damn things should know their place and all that. He's annoyed that it's getting to him this much. Considering how Hawke's handling it, that's the last thing they need right now.

Funny how he's the one who's keeping the level head in this situation. That can't bode well. At all. He leans across the table. "Hawke."

"Hm?"

“I suggest you get used to it. It won't get better."

Hawke stares, then slumps back in his chair. It's not just Emirius. Everywhere they've gone, things have been growing worse and worse. Hawke solves problems—that's what he did in Kirkwall. That was his purpose. And now he's faced with mountains of problems, every single day, unfairness and cruelty and violence. And he can't afford to fix them because he needs to run.

People whisper. " _The Champion of Kirkwall started all this."_  " _No, he didn't, it was a long time coming." "But he tipped it over the edge. He didn't have to do that."_

Fenris has stopped telling Hawke it's not his fault. He could say it until he was blue in the face and it wouldn't make a whit of difference.

When they're done eating, the barkeep brings them upstairs. "Your room's that way. Number three." He points down the hall to the left. "Elves are down there." He points to the right, then turns and trudges back down the stairs.

Fenris finds he's very sleepy after all. The wine must have done its job. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Maybe we could just sneak you into my room. We'll hide under the bed if anyone comes knocking." Hawke takes his hand.

Fenris smiles at the floor. "That's not wise."

Hawke kisses him. Softly.

Fenris breaks it off before he gets lost in it. Before either of them do. "Get some rest, Hawke."

The elven housing, as he suspected, is one large room with cots lining the walls. There's only one other inhabitant, an older man with a lined face, fast asleep. That looks like an excellent idea right about now. But first Fenris ducks into the washroom.

The mirror there is broken, only a few filthy shards remaining on the frame. But he catches sight of an unfamiliar face in the reflection, and stops.

No. That's his face. He just hasn't gotten used to the black hair. They dyed it in the Anderfels to make him less conspicuous. It looks...normal. Maybe his hair was black before the lyrium was inscribed into him. He tries to imagine himself with red hair like Varania's. The black seems more natural.

He rubs his eyes. If he doesn't find a bed to fall into right now he'll end up asleep on the floor.

——

"…tattoos."

Fenris slits his eyes open.

"…by a magister. No one else…"

There's a dull thudding in his ears. It's hard to hear anything.

"…advertise. Maybe it'll attract some…"

Something's moving under him. Like he's on a ship.

"…like he can hold his own, I wouldn't…"

Not something. Him. He's moving. Something's moving him.

"…out after, he looks pretty…"

A faint breeze brushes past him, carrying the rotten marsh scent. A breeze? When did he get outside?

Paying attention is too exhausting. He shuts his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking is unpleasant.

Fenris feels as if his head's packed with sand. When he sits up it shifts, filling the base of his skull. He wraps his hands around the back of his neck and sucks in air through his teeth.

A woman’s voice. “Shut up in there."

Fenris squints.

Bars.

He's not at the inn anymore.

Where's Hawke?

A guard’s armored back is visible in the dim torchlight, leaning against the bars of his cell. (That's what it is, a tiny stone cube, him sitting on the hard floor.) Across the corridor there's another cell. The elf inside flicks his eyes up for just a second, then resumes staring at the floor.

That's fuel enough.

His anger bursts to life, burning away the haze in his head. "Should have known. Filthy Tevinters. Always elbow-deep in the dirt and blood to dig up a copper you might have missed."

The guard turns and smirks at him. “Pretty angry for someone who’s locked up under a thousand tons of rock.”

But even with the anger blazing, he's acutely aware that he's trapped, on Tevinter territory, and he needs to at least try and be smart about this. "Am I to be sold, then?" He stands and approaches the guard.

She draws her sword. "You already been sold. Well, taken for a finder's fee, anyways."

The barkeep. He must have alerted someone on the upper levels. An interesting specimen, just arrived. Then he drugged Fenris's food, or drink (that's why his head's so full of sand) and waited for the collectors to come.

So that's what they do. Pluck free elves from the streets to use at their pleasure. Even in Minrathous the mages were never so brazen. The elves here must live in constant terror of being taken, or having their family members disappear. And it's an island. There's nowhere for them to hide. The anger blazes, wild and livid inside him.

He steps closer. The guard doesn't back away, made bold by her naked blade. Should he do this? She can't be the only one keeping an eye on the prisoners. It wouldn't help him escape, and it would certainly make things worse for him going forward.

But it would make him feel better. And anyway, she deserves it.

He summons the power in his lyrium markings, pushing it fast so she doesn’t see the glow and get scared. With the familiar burn charging through him, he sticks his hand through the bars and through her chest.

She squawks in surprise, bringing her sword up, but the swing is clumsy and Fenris sidesteps it with ease. He works the markings, leashing the power and letting it down, feeling the new warmth of her organs against the skin of his forearm. Then he pulls his arm out of her. It's covered in grimy red gore. Comfortingly familiar.

She collapses.

There's a shout from down the corridor. Fenris retreats to the back of his cell. He'd rather not be within weapons range of whomever's coming next.

Another guard. He kneels next to the woman. "The…the fuck'd you do? She’s—she’s got—“ He turns her over. Her head lolls.

A second guard, running to join the first. "What— _fuck,_  what happened to Esta?"

"He killed her! I saw him just—put his arm through her, I don't know how he fucking did it—" The first guard drops the woman's corpse and backs away from the cell.

"If you'd like to see it again, I can show you." The anger's too much to contain, and the lyrium channels surge with power, a blue shimmer ghosting over his skin. Fenris balls his hands into fists, slowly uncurls them.

The second guard, to his credit, remains where he is, staring at Fenris. "What the fuck is he?"

"Not a slave," Fenris snarls.

"That's where you're wrong, elf." The guard jabs a finger at him. "We was gonna wait 'til the drugs wore off, but you're gonna be fought tonight. With the champion, too. See how free you feel then."

Fenris hesitates. He'll be fought? What does that mean? The two guards heft their dead comrade and carry her away. Fenris goes to the front of the cell, shaking some of the gore off his arm. "What were they talking about?"

The elf across the way stares at him, terrified. "I—I can't talk to you."

"They're not here right now. I need to know what's going to happen to me. Please." With the guards gone, the anger has burned itself out, and his head is pounding again, his thoughts thick and slow.

The elf pulls his knees up to his chest. "You'll…you'll be fought. This evening. You go in the ring with the champion. They place bets."

Fenris leans against the bars. "I'll be made to fight."

"Yes."

"For entertainment."

"Yes."

He goes to the back of the cell and sits down against the wall, the stone cold against his back. It’s not a practice he saw in Minrathous, but not far-fetched, especially for an isolated city like this one. What else is there to do on an island?

He stretches his legs out. His back aches, probably from lying on the hard stone floor for Maker knows how many hours. His muscles feel stiff. Whatever that damned barkeep knocked him out with, it was powerful stuff. This champion had better not be too good at what he does.

There's a faint clanking as one of the guards comes down the corridor. A replacement. Fenris shuts his eyes.

Prays Hawke's not doing anything foolish without him.

——

They bring ten guards to escort him.

Fenris half-smiles when he sees them. Even with his abilities, they're armed and he's not. Four would be more than enough. But it's nice to feel dangerous. He stands and stretches, watching the ones nearest to him take a step back. How he’d love to take them all apart right here in this cell. But he can’t. Not this many.

And not as he is now. He was given a small bowl of water not long ago, but no food. His head still pounds, and he feels weak and exhausted. The fight will likely be fixed against him. Hopefully not too much.

He just has to live through it. Afterwards he can figure out how to try and get out of this as soon as possible. It isn't that he's afraid of snapping, losing hold on his self-control and lashing out at his captors, setting himself up for a speedy execution. Quite the opposite. He grew up a slave and the structures are still there, the skeleton on which his mind was built. He's done a lot to separate himself from that but fears that eventually he'll slide straight back to where he started. When he was younger, the fact that he was a slave was just that, a fact. Like the weather. Nothing that could be changed or resisted, or even warranted it. He never grasped the true awfulness of it until after he was free, and he doesn’t want that to slip away from him again.

He tries to keep track of where he's being led. The stone corridors seem endless. Some hold more cells containing more beaten-down elves. Dozens of them. Fenris takes deep breaths, focusing on the sensation of his ribs expanding and relaxing. No use getting angry now—he'll need all the energy he can get to win this. The guards take him up a few flights of stairs. There are no windows. The air remains cool around him. He remembers what the guard said before he killed her.  _Locked up under a thousand tons of rock._  They must be inside the mountain somewhere.

Then he hears a faint murmuring.

It grows louder as they march. One more corner, the stone floor smoother here, well-trodden. The hallway ends in a broad grate, and through it Fenris sees an open space considerably more well-lit than the rest of this maze. And he hears the sound.

Conversation. Hundreds of people.

The nerves gnaw at him, eroding his already tenuous resolve. The squad of guards bring him to the grate, and one shoves him forward. He stumbles, his normally excellent balance failing him. He's just too hollowed-out by hunger, dehydration, and the damned drug. He catches himself on the iron bars.

As he suspected. It's an arena, built inside an enormous cavern.

Fenris peers up at the stands. They're alive with bright colors, flashes of gold and silver. No mere peasants' entertainment, then. Blood sport for the mage classes, gathered here in their decadent trappings.

Blood sport. Right. He wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing is some kind of ritual, the deaths feeding their vile magic. His hands tighten around the bars. He wants no part of this, but the alternatives are worse. For now he just needs to survive.

"Hey. Elf."

He looks over his shoulder.

One of the guards is there. "You got a name?"

Fenris gives him a hard smile. “No, as it happens.”

The man shrugs helplessly. "Can't say I didn't try." He retreats back down the corridor.

Fenris's fingers slip off the grate as it begins to rise. It's time.

He shakes his arms out, bounces on his toes. Fighting. Fighting, he knows. He strides out across the dusty stone floor. His welcome is warm, an appreciative roar rising from the stands. Repulsive. He wonders if they can see the tattoos from that distance. Surely they'll notice when he starts glowing through his clothes. Even if he isn’t recognized as Danarius’s wolf, he's still valuable. If someone decides to buy him…

This isn't the time to think about that. He needs to focus.

The magical lights, in bright white and red, are nearly blinding from down in the arena. He shades his eyes and scans the area. There's a shortsword in the middle of the floor. That must be his. He picks it up. A one-handed weapon. Not his area of expertise, but it could be worse. They could have made him do this unarmed.

The far grate rises.

His opponent strides out to another round of cheering from the crowd. He’s armored. And has  _two_  swords. Fenris grimaces. A difficult fight, to say the least. But the man (elf, more likely, though it's hard to tell behind the helmet) isn't showboating, waving at the crowd, nothing like that. He drags his feet, stalking forward with eyes on the ground. It seems there are no reward for winning. Only to continue living, however much that can be considered a reward.

Fenris feels a wave of compassion for the man. Camaraderie. He wishes it would go away. The fight will be hard enough as it is.

A booming voice, magnified by magic. "Citizens of Emirius!"

The man stops a few feet in front of him. Fenris scans him up and down. Lean and short of stature. He'll be quicker than he is strong. Perhaps Fenris could use that, if they had given him armor. As it is, it's only a disadvantage.

"Our reigning champion, Quenta!"

A loud roar from the stands. Quenta makes no motion to acknowledge it. If anything, he hunches further into himself.

"Facing a newcomer, plucked from the slums only this morning, who's already  _killed a guard with his bare hands!"_

Murmurs and gasps. Fenris exhales, swallowing the anger. He doesn't want them to like him. To find him intriguing. He remembers the looks, walking through the streets of Minrathous. The raised eyebrows at the white-haired elf, the hungry interest that stirred up fear in the pit of his stomach. That made him feel like being with Danarius kept him safe.

"He is known only as…the Marked Man!"

Fenris rolls his eyes. Pathetic. The applause is nearly deafening.

"Fighters, ready yourselves!"

Fenris takes a few steps back. The sword is heavier than it needs to be, and it looks like it hasn’t seen a whetstone in decades. A trick to prolong the fight, no doubt. It’s much harder to land a deathblow with a blunted blade. He squeezes the grip with both hands. Quenta doesn't move.

"And…begin!"

Quenta charges.

Fenris watches for some sign of a feint, some trick in the stance. There is none. He steps aside. Quenta blunders past him.

He realizes then. This will not be a difficult fight. Quenta is not one of the very few Tevinter elves who have received martial training. He's a desperate man who had a string of good luck and managed to survive a few fights without dying.

Was it good luck? Fenris isn't sure if he'd call it that.

This isn't a fight. It's an execution.

No. Fenris parries, sidesteps again, blocks, shoves Quenta to the ground so he can take a few seconds to think. He can't reveal his training. Who knows what they'll do if they find out he has that under his belt?

Fenris does the bare minimum to keep from being injured and makes a few forays of his own. There's no power in the blows, and they clang off Quenta's chainmail. He sees a dozen openings where he could step in, throw Quenta off his feet, and drive the sword through him, chainmail and all. He takes none of them. The fight requires hardly any attention. It settles into an easy rhythm—engage, disengage, circle, repeat. Quenta’s shoulders heave as he sucks in air. Fenris finds he’s getting tired, too. He’d be disappointed in himself if he didn’t know to blame the drug. How long does he need to keep this up? There's been enough exchanges by now. He could end it, and it will have been a good fight. Nothing remarkable, but satisfying for the spectators.

But he doesn't want to kill this man. No part of him wants to do that.

Quenta feints right and then strikes out at Fenris's heart.

So he does have some tricks. Fenris reacts as he's been taught, turning to the outside of the blow, locking up Quenta’s other arm and kicking him in the kneecap. Quenta screams and buckles, and Fenris shifts into an offensive stance.

Damn. Damn his foolishness. That's martial arts through and through. He drops the stance as soon as he realizes he's done it. Maybe they didn't notice.

It's time for this to end. Delaying the inevitable is only cruel. Fenris bats away Quenta's weapons, disarming him of both blades. Quenta can't stand anymore on the damaged knee, and Fenris lifts the tip of his sword to his opponent's chin.

"An unbelievable upset! Our champion has been defeated by a newcomer!"

Cheering and applause fill the cavern, magnified by echoes. Fenris glances up at the stands. The mages are on their feet, stamping in approval. A twinge of self-disgust twists inside him. He doesn’t want them to approve. Wants nothing more than to climb the wooden walls and use this blade to slash all their throats.

Quenta reaches up with shaky hands and removes his helmet. An elf after all, with a bloody nose (Fenris's work) and a shaved head.

"How will the Marked Man kill him?" the announcer calls. "Decapitation? Evisceration? Perhaps something more…unusual?"

The cheering continues. Fenris doesn't move, his gaze locked with Quenta’s. What would happen if he refused? The answer to that is obvious.

"Please, ser." Quenta nearly has to shout to be heard over the audience. "I'm afraid of what they'll do to me if you hand me over."

There's no choice here. No choice except obey or be punished.

Swiftly, Fenris leans down, grabs the back of the man's head, and drives the sword through his eye.

The quickest death he knows how to give with this weapon. Quenta's body falls to the stone floor, blood pooling in his ruined eye socket. The roar of the audience grows even louder. They love him. The announcer is saying something. Fenris doesn't hear it.

Hate. Hate pulses in his gut like a second heartbeat. He feels like growling and snapping his teeth.

The guards come out to collect him. They wait for a moment as he stands there, gripping the sword. He watches them start to fan out around him. Ten of them. Well-armed.

Fenris drops the sword. He goes quietly.

There's a burning at the back of his throat like bile. He hates this place. Hates the shying guards, the mages stomping in the stands. Hates the cursed mountain he’s buried under. The thousand tons of rock separating him from the man he loves.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris is taken to a new cell. Larger than the first, and closer to the arena. It’s a relief to be away from the glare of the lights, the haze of dust. But he can guess what's coming, and he steels himself, suppressing the anger. They still haven't fed him and there’s no telling when they will. He needs to preserve his energy.

For what? He can't get out of here. Why not let the rage burn? It always makes him feel better. For a little while, anyway. Then it makes him sick. Because it's not his, it's something they planted in him, and now it's rooted too deep and he can't dig it out. This is why he needs Hawke. Hawke can calm him with nothing more than a smile.

Although Fenris hasn't seen that smile in weeks. He draws his knees to his chest, waiting. They've managed to stay together across three countries but it still feels like he's losing the Hawke he knew. May have actually lost him this time. He prays to anyone who’s listening that if Hawke's still alive, he has the good sense not to come looking for Fenris and risk drawing the ire of a city’s worth of mages.

Speaking of which. He hears the excited muttering in the hallway outside.

A dozen mages come into view, robes flowing, jewelry flashing. Their leader, a woman with a lined face and robes of deep green, gestures to Fenris through the bars. "This is our new champion!"

A small burst of excited applause. Fenris feels nauseous.

"Well? Stand up!" The woman claps sharply.

Fenris freezes.

 _Do what we want just because we want you to._  It used to be so simple. He was happy to follow orders like these, easy and harmless. Now it makes him want to crawl out of his branded skin.

 _Obey or be punished._  He rises to his feet.

More murmuring as they eye him. He's being judged. Someone says the word 'tattoos.' The woman in green picks up on it. "Slave," she orders him. "Take off your clothes. We want to see your markings."

He hesitates a second too long. The mages closest to the bars take a step back. The woman's smile levels out to something far more deadly.

Obey or be punished. He strips.

Tossing his clothes aside, he stands naked before them in the cool air, his tattoos glowing faintly (the agitation—this is  _wrong)_. More murmuring. The woman in green does not join in. She presses her painted lips together. "That must have been  _very_  expensive."

Fenris says nothing, hopes she won’t order him to elaborate.

She nods at him. "What's your name?"

He can't keep hiding behind the ridiculous pseudonym they gave him, but he doesn't know how far his real name might be known, how much effort Danarius put into finding him. So he shuffles through names in his head, picking one not too close— "Gamlen."

She narrows her eyes and hisses, "You think you can lie to an Altus mage?"

Fenris curses his stupidity. Gamlen is a Marches name, and certainly not one that would be given to a slave. He tries again. "Leto."

A Tevinter name, at least. It satisfies her. "Hm. I see. Well, Leto." She smiles, all charm again for the sake of her entourage. "We're looking forward to seeing you fight again. Perhaps something more challenging next time. It'll give you a chance to show off those martial arts of yours."

Damn. She saw the stance. Fenris remains silent. Useless to keep lying about it.

One of the older men leans in, his sky-blue robes doing nothing to hide his rotund gut. "Ah, Jenelia—do you think you might be renting him out anytime soon?"

'Renting him out.' Fenris knows what that means. So he's to be whored out too. He drops his eyes. It was never very difficult before, letting Danarius’s leering acquaintances bed him, but since Hawke—

"Soon, yes. But not right now. I don't think he's ready yet." She sighs. "All right, everyone, let's head back."

They leave him alone, except for a duo of guards. Another slave brings him food. More than he expected. Obviously they want him strong enough to put on a good show.

He could refuse. Could throw the next fight. Let himself be killed. He knows now exactly how worthless life as a slave is, and he's willing to risk whatever the afterlife holds to avoid it.

But there's a chance Hawke is still alive. A chance Fenris might escape and find him. A minuscule dust mote of a chance.

Fenris eats. He'll need his strength for the next round.

——

Another slaughter.

Four elves. Terrified, without an inkling of how to fight. They try, at least, to work together. Fenris has to cripple them first before he can kill them. He listens to their screams, and his strikes become more savage, still not cutting like they should because the blade is so dull. He wants to make them killing blows. This suffering is needless.

Fenris does the mages' work. Four dead elves, their bodies scattered like gamblers’ dice. He tosses his sword to the ground, examines the wound on his forearm, the only one he sustained during the fight. It's bleeding a lot but isn’t deep. Their blades were no sharper than his.

He is now "Leto, the Marked Man." The mages shout his name when he wins. He refuses to acknowledge them, just stands in the middle of the arena and waits to be escorted away. He doesn't want to be their favorite. The new spectacle.

It doesn't matter what he wants.

In his cell, a woman elf binds his arm. Her hands are skillful. Fenris wonders if she learned healing before or after she became a slave.

He is left alone.

——

It's impossible to tell how much time passes down here—a good technique for wearing someone down. He spends some of the time listlessly juggling ideas for escape. None of them are very good. He has no idea where he is or how many soldiers stand between him and the exit. Anyway, he’s not the strategist between the two of them. Hawke is.

He spends the rest of the time thinking of Hawke.

Still out there, somewhere. He’ll have started looking for Fenris. Fenris hopes he doesn’t get anywhere. These people are dangerous. But knowing Hawke, he’ll be able to gather some good information, one way or another.

Then Fenris hears the gasp.

Soft and guttural. He knows that gasp. It's the sound of a man dying.

He vaults to his feet and strides to the front of his cell. The second guard's drawn his weapon and is advancing on whoever just killed his comrade. Fenris, with a minor rush of satisfaction, reaches in through the man’s back, finds his heart, and crushes it.

He collapses. Fenris clutches the bars of his cell. Unbelievable—

"Fenris, thank the Maker, you're all right." Hawke, there in front of him, already kneeling to pick the lock.

"Hawke." Fenris is unspeakably relieved. "Are you  _mad?_  What possessed you to think—"

Hawke abandons his task for a moment to kiss Fenris on the mouth. It almost works. Then Fenris remembers what he was saying. "This island is  _packed_  with mages, if they know you're here you've got no chance—"

"I couldn't leave you. I just couldn't." He steps back and slides the door open.

"You should have." Fenris removes a sword from one of the dead guards. A much sharper blade than the last weapon he wielded. “We need to move quickly.”

"Right. Follow me." Hawke takes off down the hall.

Fenris follows. Despite his relief, this is an awful idea. Hawke might be able to sneak out on his own, but now he's picked up a much less stealthy passenger. "How did you find me?"

"I made some…inquiries."

Likely the violent sort. Hawke always tried to avoid violence in the past—Fenris would take over to spare him, if possible. Things have been somewhat different since they've been on the run. Fenris thinks of the deadly calm that took Hawke over at the inn. That unbroken surface conceals beneath it a vicious riptide of which Fenris has only ever seen the edges.

Hawke pulls up sharply, then creeps forward, flattening himself against the wall. Fenris does the same.

A group of guards charges around the corner. Damn. They’ve been alerted. Hawke takes two of them apart before they realize he's there. Fenris draws power from his tattoos, lets their blows slide off his skin. They don't have time to adapt before he's put his sword through two more. Hawke takes care of the final one with a well-placed stab in the back.

They're moving again. More cells slide past on either side, more starved elves kept for blood sport, or maybe just for blood. Neither Fenris nor Hawke say anything about it. The guilt lodges in Fenris's throat like a cherry stone. They're abandoning the prisoners to short, miserable lives with horrible deaths. But they can't afford to stop or look after anyone else.

They climb a staircase. Hawke seems to know exactly where they’re going. But he halts at the top, his face going grim. Fenris looks past him.

Seven or eight, he's not sure, standing there waiting. The one in front has an insignia on his armor. A ranked officer. He grins, showing them yellow teeth. “Well, what do we have here? An intruder, come to break out his knife-eared whoreslave?"

Hawke doesn't raise his voice. "I'd suggest taking that back."

The man jerks his chin at Fenris. “What, you trying to tell me he's not? Can't fool me, I seen plenty enough whores to know."

Fenris snorts. "A handsome man like you? Never."

The man narrows his eyes. "He's got a mouth on him, does he?"

"I do have a mouth, in fact. Wouldn't it be disturbing if I didn't?" Fenris smiles at him drily.

The man's face twists in pain, and he makes an agonized cry, clutching his gut. There's a knife hilt sticking out of his middle. Hawke's work, so quick Fenris didn't even see it. But that's not a killing blow, not immediately, anyway.

He shunts the thought aside. Time to fight.

It's not quite so clean this time. He takes a pommel to the nose and reels, dazed; only Hawke's speedy intervention keeps him from getting stabbed, a dagger lashing out, ripping open his attacker’s throat with brutal efficiency. But the last soldier falls, and they're both still alive. Good enough. Fenris sits against the wall, holding his bloodied nose, waiting for his head to clear. Sees Hawke going over to the captain of the squad.

The man is prostrate on the ground, breathing in gasps. His fingers are closed around the knife in his gut, trying to stabilize it. Fenris knows that kind of wound. It hurts worse when the knife moves.

Hawke reaches down and twists it. The man screams. Hawke relents. "What did you call him?"

"I'm sorry, ser, I didn't mean it, I s— _aagh!"_

Hawke rips the dagger out and digs his fingers into the wound. His voice remains level. "Say it."

The man writhes, sweat trickling down his temples. “I’m sorry! It's not—we're under orders— _aaagh!"_

"Hawke." Fenris struggles to his feet. This shouldn't be happening.

Hawke leans in closer. "Say it."

The man sobs. "Kn—knife-eared—whoresl—"

A gurgling scream as Hawke jams the dagger into his heart, under the ribs. He flops once, then lies still.

Fenris is still seeing some stars but he holds on to the wall for support. "Hawke! What are you doing?!"

"I was angry." He collects his knives and stands.

"You don't say." Fenris's vision is clearing. At last. They need to move. "Are you going to do that to everyone who calls me names? I hope you brought enough knives to torture the entire city—"

"I just—it makes me sick. Seeing you treated like that." He starts down the hallway.

Fenris follows behind him. "Then it's a good thing you weren't around for my twelve years of servitude, you would have been sick all the time."

"Fenris!" He stops and spins, then remembers what they're doing and starts down the hall again. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to—"  _Be you again._  That's not a conversation they can have now. "Nothing. I'm sorry. These past few days have been trying."

"Fenris...I love you." Then he stops.

Fenris stops too. Are there more guards coming? But something's wrong. It looks less like Hawke stopped and more like he…froze.

At last he sees the faint glow on the ground. A broad symbol, extending to both sides of the corridor. He's right at the edge, and backs away. No, no, no—

"Pity. You were halfway to open air."

He knows that voice.

The woman in green. Jenelia, that's what the other mage called her. She comes around the corner, smiling benignly, smoothing her verdigris robes. "'Fenris,' eh? So that's your real name."

She doesn't seem to recognize it. A small mercy. Fenris tightens his grip on his sword. Knows it's useless. She's alone but she's already caught Hawke, and Fenris can't cross the glyph without being caught himself.

"Fenris. You need to drop that weapon, now." She indicates Hawke. "Or I paralyze your companion's lungs, too."

He tosses the sword to the ground without hesitating. An outside chance of defending himself isn't worth Hawke's life.

She ambles closer, tapping her chin, her smile turning thoughtful. "Did I really hear him say 'I love you?' How very sweet." She stops, inches away from Hawke, looks him up and down. "You two have killed a lot of my guards, you know. I knew you were dangerous, Fenris. That lyrium is quite an investment, and such an expense would not be wasted on riffraff. But your lover here…he's no slouch himself, is he?"

There's the clatter of bootsteps behind him, coming up the hall. Reinforcements. It's done. Whatever chance he had is gone.

"Too dangerous, the both of you. Too much of a risk. I should throw you both into the marsh. Or…” She pauses, thinking. “…perhaps not. Well, if there's a bright side to all this mess, it appears we have the event of the year planned for tonight. Take him."

A gauntleted hand grabs his arm. He doesn't resist. The man drags him back the way they came.  _They have Hawke._  Fear turning in the pit of his stomach.  _They have Hawke._


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris paces.

He should be resting, or practicing, or doing something useful. "Event of the year." They're going to summon demons, Fenris would bet money on it. Use his and Hawke's lives to gain favor with them. Considering how many denizens of the Fade he and Hawke have killed, the demons will no doubt be very pleased.

They should never have come to this island. But he can't lay any blame for that. In the Anderfels, they had soldiers closing in on every side. There was nowhere else to go except out to sea, and their little boat wasn't good for distance. Not to mention their lack of supplies.

He dearly hopes Hawke's realized what's coming and isn't doing anything to earn punishment from his captors. Demons are hard enough to kill without the sting of whip marks on your back to distract you. Maybe they'll be given proper weapons this time. It would make the fight longer, at least.

He doesn't know how long he's been pacing when the cell door slides open.

Another elf. She throws something into the cell, then backs away quickly. The door is shut and locked again.

Fenris kneels. It's his armor. He'd left it at the Demon's Head.

If they're going so far as to give him this…

He starts putting it on. And readies himself to die.

——

They don't come for him for some time. He spends the intervening hours trying to think of a way out of this. Maneuver the demons into attacking the stands? Too obvious, the mages will have anticipated that. Make a deal with the demons? What could they possibly want from Fenris and Hawke that the mages couldn't give them? So survive the fight and find an escape later. Right. The least likely plan yet. If they defeat one wave, the mages will just summon more.

Give up immediately so at least he gets to hold Hawke one last time before they're devoured? That's the one he ends on before he's fetched.

A dozen guards this time. They must figure he's more dangerous with the armor. He still doesn't have a weapon. As he walks, pins and needles rush down to his toes and the tips of his fingers. He doesn't want it to end like this. He wasted too much time distancing himself from Hawke, and he hasn't made it all up yet.

As he’s marched he thinks of not the first time they were together, but the second, when he’d finally decided  _yes, I want this_  and Hawke was there waiting, full of love. How it was the happiest moment of his life and then somehow it happened again, and again, and again, as the world boiled and broke around them, and they only grew closer, and stronger, and more certain of each other.

It isn’t fair. Fenris finally found Hawke, found himself. And now it’s all to be ripped from them, far away from their friends or their home. He blinks and realizes dully that he’s arrived and has been standing there for a short while.

The grate rises to show him the arena, splashed with light in white and red.

Hawke's already on the floor, wearing his own armor. The relief at seeing him alive is somewhat tempered by the knowledge that they’ll both be dead within the hour. Fenris runs to him. The announcer is introducing Leto, the Marked Man. He's hardly listening.

Hawke kisses him on the mouth.

A series of gasps and  _oohs_  from the crowd. Fenris blocks it out. "Hawke, I—"

"I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry." Hawke kisses him again.

Fenris breaks off, shakes his head. "You didn't do anything."

"Good. Okay." Hawke tries to smile, doesn’t quite make it.

Fenris takes Hawke's hand gently. "Did I ever tell you that meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me?"

Hawke lets out a startled laugh. "Yes, I seem to recall you saying that once."

"Never doubt—"

"—we will watch these two lovers fight each other to the death!"

Fenris freezes. Feels Hawke's hand tense in his.

"These two skilled warriors who cut down our expertly trained guards—"  _that's generous_ , Fenris thinks, through the haze of fear, "—in a failed escape attempt were caught by our very own Lady Jenelia, at great risk to the safety of her person!"

"Great risk my ass," Hawke mutters. "She caught me like a rat in a trap."

"So how shall we deal with these criminals? Madame Jenelia has thought of a most fitting punishment!"

"Thank you, Porius."

Jenelia's voice. Fenris sees her, far up in the stands, green and glittering.

"Leto and Carver. I admire your audacity, but it's time to put you in your place. Here's how it goes—one of you will die here, in the arena, killed by the other. The winner…gets to stay with us.”

A murmur of laughter from the crowd. Fenris feels as if he’s caught in a whirlwind, everything tossed up and twisting around him, blinded by sand.  _Gets to stay with us._  He knows what that means, or at least the possibilities. Tortured. Used. Experimented on with blood magic. He imagines it happening to Hawke, all of it, and the dread nearly overtakes him. That can’t happen. He can’t let it. Past Hawke the grate is still open, and a guard tosses something through it that clatters loudly on the stone floor. Fenris hears a similar sound behind him.

Weapons.

"Hawke?" he warns. "Don't." But it's too late—Hawke's already dashing toward the twin daggers. Fenris turns and runs for the greatsword they threw to him.

Demons. He thought it would be demons. If only they had been so lucky.

Hawke's already circling. Fenris doesn't dare look away. Toe-to-toe, he can beat Hawke maybe once out of every four times. Best to use other methods of winning. "Let me do this, Hawke. I'm far better prepared than you for what lies beyond."

"No one else hurts you. It stops here." He keeps his distance.

Fenris grits his teeth, exasperated. "This is ridiculous! There's no reason—"

"Don't even try, Fenris. I've made my choice."

That's it, then. If Hawke's one thing, he's decisive. Fenris hefts the greatsword. A fine-quality weapon. He can only imagine Hawke's daggers are similar.

Speaking of which. Hawke's charging him.

Curse Hawke. Fast as always. Fenris bring his sword to bear just in time, parrying one dagger and leaning away from the other. Hawke disengages, then circles again.

Fenris moves with him. The cognitive dissonance is setting in. How is he supposed to kill the man who's more important to him than anything else in the world? But he envisions again Hawke in pain, the agonized shine in his eyes, mages bent over his exposed form. An unthinkable outcome.

Fenris steels himself. He must kill Hawke to save him. It’s the only way

Hawke spins his daggers in a showy flourish and attacks again. Fenris parries twice, strikes out pommel-first. A messy maneuver, and he thinks he's lost, but Hawke doesn't take advantage. Another combination. broadcast far too clearly. Fenris evades it with ease.

Hawke backs away, pacing. Fenris takes a defensive stance. This doesn't make sense. He's sure Hawke's got a dozen tricks he's never shown Fenris before. Why isn't he using them?

Because he doesn't want to go through with it either. "Let me do this, Hawke. It'll be far easier for both of us," Fenris calls.

"Not a chance," Hawke responds.

So it's to be like this. Fenris grips his blade and attacks.

Hawke tries to get out of the way, but Fenris swivels, following him. But he’s not where Fenris thought he would be. Speed and subterfuge. Damn him. Fenris follows through with the swing, hoping he'll get lucky; but he's at the wrong angle now, and it glances off Hawke's daggers.

They break and circle. Hawke flourishes his daggers again. Odd. He doesn't normally do that in the middle of battle. Fenris blinks and refocuses. He should be concentrating on winning.

Hawke charges once more. Fenris leans forward, on the balls of his feet. Hawke launches his favorite combination, the one he always slips in when they spar and which Fenris knows by heart. It's tough to counter but he's gone through the motions a hundred times, and he comes out unscathed, forcing Hawke back with a wide swing.

Why would he do that? He knows it wouldn't work. Is he trying to tire Fenris out?

The gleam of reflected magical light as Hawke weaves his daggers back and forth again. Like the tricks he does absentmindedly when he's deep in thought.

It all comes together. The broadcasting, the easy combinations. It's not reluctance. It's stalling. Hawke's trying to find a way out of this.

Fenris wants to shout in frustration. There is no way out. He runs at Hawke. It's time this was over. Hawke dodges the downward chop—the only option, as it would have broken his guard—and Fenris shifts, following up with a powerful thrust.

Hawke flips over it. Somehow, on the way, he strikes Fenris square on the chin with the heel of his boot.

Stupid. The only way to beat Hawke is to stay on defense. Fenris staggers back, bring his sword to bear reflexively, parries two quick slashes but takes the kick in the gut without even seeing it beforehand. He hunches over, and a pommel hits him in the cheek. His head whips to the side, and he goes to the ground. Hawke's on top of him in a second, the tip of a dagger hovering at his throat.

Hawke does not kill him yet.

This isn’t acceptable. The image, Hawke bent and kneeling, skin painted with blood, closed in on all sides by mages in immaculate robes. “Please." Fenris finds he's begging. It's been a very long time since he's done that. "You don't know what they'll do to you. I’ve seen it, been through it in Minrathous, I am prepared, you are  _not_ , Hawke, if you love me—“

Then he stops talking because Hawke kisses him on the mouth.

The kiss is far too brief.

When Hawke breaks away he looks in agony. "You know I love you. More than anything. Fenris, I—Maker forgive me. You need to pretend to kill me. And make it convincing."

Fenris's eyes widen. Hawke has a way…his eyes travel up the dagger hovering above him. A black liquid drips from Hawke's hand onto Fenris's shoulder.

Poison. He can fake his death with poison. But they need the death-blow, and only Fenris can provide that.

He pulls Hawke down. "Swear you won't come back for me."

"Fenris—"

" _Swear."_

"Yes. I swear."

Fenris kisses him. And puts his phantom arm through Hawke's chest, his hand sticking out the other side. There's a collective thrilled shout from the audience. Hawke drops the dagger and gasps into his mouth.

Now the difficult part. He needs an entrance wound and an exit wound. He manipulates the lyrium, persuading it to part around his wrist, the presence of his arm there excluding Hawke's flesh. Hawke chokes down a shout as a wound opens on his back, then kisses Fenris again.

Letting the lyrium wash back over him, Fenris withdraws, leaving only his hand inside Hawke's chest. He begins to release the magic, his forearm losing its ghostly appearance.

Hawke gasps again, Fenris's wrist piercing his chest wall, and he starts to slump, sinking down on Fenris's arm. Startled, Fenris yanks his hand away, praying he didn't do too much extra damage— "Hawke?" He rolls Hawke to the ground and pushes himself to his knees. "Hawke!"

But his eyes are shut, blood pooling in the circle-shaped wound in his chest. Fenris can't look away. That's a lot of blood. He made a mistake. Let Hawke fall forward and impale himself. That's a killing blow, a real one.

"It appears we have a winner!"

Gauntleted hands grab Fenris's shoulders. He breaks away easily, but they're already at Hawke's body, checking his pulse. Fenris is grabbed again, and this time he allows himself to be taken.

It's over. One way or another, it's over.

They drag Hawke's corpse away by the ankles.

——

Over the clanking of his armored escort he can hear the mages murmuring behind him.

Jenelia’s authoritative tone appears most frequently, responding to questions or offers. One of them wants to bed him. More than one. Jenelia gives them a firm refusal. Not quite a refusal.  _He’s not ready. You’ll have to wait. Lord Castius, you’ll be the first person I contact._

Not ready? What does she mean? Lord Castius, his voice somehow gravelly and obsequious at the same time. Fenris can hear Jenelia’s smile as she answers.  _Still too strong-willed, but I think it can be beaten out of him without much trouble. I’d bet my life he used to be a slave. It’s easier to break those than the elves who come to us without any prior experience._

The anger, rising to his defense. Who are they to talk about him like that? But it’s not enough, and the traitorous fear digs its fingers into him. He told Hawke he was prepared, but that was a lie. Maybe he would have been, fifteen years ago, when Danarius was his master. When he expected cruelty, believed he deserved it. Freedom has been a blessing—to have friends, a home, a man who loves him, and most of all the ability to  _fight back_ —but it’s also left him vulnerable. How now is he supposed to tolerate this depth of injustice? This grievous loss?

At least it's him in this position, and not Hawke.

Fenris walks with leaden steps. Hawke is dead. Maybe. But even if he's not, they'll never see each other again.


	5. Chapter 5

When Hawke wakes the only thing he wants to do is go back to sleep. There’s not a single scrap of energy left in his limbs, and opening his eyes is just about the only movement he can manage.

But every second he stays here is another second Fenris is locked up inside that damn mountain. So he takes a deep breath.

And sucks in mud. He coughs, pushing himself up on his elbows. It’s far too difficult. That poison really did a number on him. Though it also appears to have done its job, since he’s still alive.

And so is Fenris. Somewhere. Thank the Maker.

The pain starts to pulse into his awareness, burning in his back and chest. Hawke staggers to his feet, struggling to balance in the mud. That pain’ll be a lot worse once the poison wears off completely. He needs to take advantage now. He squints into the twilight. Where did they dump him, anyway?

A sandy wetland stretches out before him, woven with lazy rivers and shallow tributaries that shimmer in the emerging light of the moon. The putrid scent of salt marsh hits his nose, and he hears the guttural buzzing of blackbirds, the high croaking of frogs. This must be what’s behind the mountain. Great leafy plants wave slowly in the breeze, shining red in the moonlight. Hawke frowns. He’s a city boy, but he’s still fairly sure plants aren’t supposed to be red.

The mud shifts under him, and he overbalances, catching himself with one hand. The ground is rough under his fingers. He looks down.

Because it’s not ground. It’s chainmail. He’s planted his hand on the corpse of a dead elf who’s already well into the decaying process. One of his eye sockets is a ragged, broken mess. Peering at his limbs, Hawke sees what he thinks for a second are exposed blood vessels. But they trail off into the mud.

Not blood vessels. Roots.

Hawke stumbles back. Damn blood mages. He doesn’t know what kind of disgusting magic they’re feeding into this marsh, but he’d rather not be a part of it. So he turns and starts slogging, keeping the mountain to his right. The mud is thick, and it’s tough going. The pain twinges through him, just the start of what he’s sure will flourish into the familiar burn of an open wound. His legs buckle, the drugs sucking away any strength he tries to feed into them.

But he stays on his feet because whatever Fenris is going through right now, it’s got to be ten times worse.

He swears to himself that one day, when he and Fenris are safe again, he’ll find a way to cast this whole damned island into the sea.

——

There’s a wall between him and the city, extending far out into the water.

Only about fifteen feet high, but Hawke’s exhausted (after walking a half-mile, pathetic) so he takes a quick break to wade into the ocean and wash the mud off him. The water’s freezing, rising up his legs and around his waist. But it’s the agony of salt water hitting the wounds in his chest and back that really wakes him up.

The poison’s wearing off. The pain is awful.

Hawke stifles a yell, touches his chest gingerly. That’s not the kind of pain he can ignore. Something’s seriously wrong. He thought the dark stains on his leather armor were mud but there’s a  _lot_  of blood seeping out of him. Not good. Pain he’ll bear, for Fenris, anything for Fenris, but he needs to stay functional.

He stands in the freezing sea and tries to figure out what in the Void he’s going to do. Finds it’s hard to concentrate when every breath hurts him.

Healing. He won’t make it far without healing.

He wades back to land. Pats the hidden slots at his waist. His poisons are still there, in their sealed vials. Maybe another dose, smaller this time. Just enough to push him around the bend.

And knock him for a loop. No, he does this cold.

The wall isn’t well maintained. It was smooth once, the deep brown stone likely shaped by magic, but the surface is pocked now by weather, with chunks missing here and there. Easily climbable. Hawke starts a few dozen yards down from the gate.

‘Easily climbable.’ Right. Each handhold sends new waves of agony through his chest. Hawke gasps, pressing his forehead against the rough stone. He wishes Fenris were here. For some reason, pain is much easier to bear when he has someone to hold his hand. Or scoff at his weakness, either one.

He heaves himself up onto the top of the wall, startling a gull, who flaps away toward the water. Shit. Hawke flattens himself and remains perfectly still.

Whatever guards are posted at the gate make no investigation of the offended seabird. Utter negligence. They deserve to have their pay docked. Hawke considers staying here for a little while. It hurts less when he doesn’t move.

Then he thinks of Fenris, red wounds splitting his brown skin, unable to fight back.

Hawke drags himself forward. The broken muscles in his chest pull tight, and he stops, making a guttural noise low in his throat. Something is wrong with him. He needs help.

And he won’t find it until he gets back to the damned city. So he keeps crawling, peering over the edge of the wall. Two guards at the gate, standing under a sputtering lantern. Their spears are listing, and they look extremely bored. Hawke steels himself. This is going to hurt for everyone involved.

He moves slowly, remaining as silent as possible. Surprise will be his only advantage here. When he’s in position, he drops down right on top of the first guard, who lets out a muffled yelp. The other spins, too stunned for a moment by something actually happening to react.

It’s a messy fight. Hawke takes a spear-shaft to the mouth, and it’s likely only confusion on the part of the guards that saves his life. But eventually they’re both dead and Hawke is sitting against the wall, holding his bleeding mouth and trying not to sob for the devastating pain in his chest.

Remembers Fenris after a fight with the Tal-Vashok, his arm nearly hanging off, staring at Hawke with wild eyes.  _“It’s fine, Hawke. The pain doesn’t matter. I’m not dead.”_

Hawke hauls himself to his feet, using the wall. It takes a while. He searches the guards’ bodies. Two coin purses. Good. He liberates a sword and two daggers. A cloak, to hide his wounds.

Trudges off through the dark towards the city.

——

The slums are nearest to the wetlands. Hawke can guess why. When the wind blows around the back of the mountain, it would carry that salt-marsh smell straight here.

The first beach shack he sees is abandoned, the floor rotted and fallen through. The second is intact, standing on its stilts, and he climbs the stairs and hammers on the door loud enough to wake anyone who might be inside. There’s no answer. Hawke slumps against the threshold and tries again. “Please. I don’t want anything, I’m just looking for directions.”

Rustling from inside. He shuts his eyes. Thank the Maker. The door opens a tiny crack, a sliver of a face visible behind it. “What do you want?” the man snaps.

“I’m looking for—a healer.” Hawke can hardly get the words out. His breath comes ragged. “A good one.”

“If you need healing, Mr. Fendon can help you,” the man says coldly. “Two miles down the strip, then up Saltsucker Street.”

Two miles. Hawke holds back a groan. He doesn’t know if he’ll make it that far. “Thank you. For your trouble.” He digs one of the coin purses out of his pockets and holds it out.

The door opens an inch more, and Hawke can see now that the man he’s been speaking to is an elf. He stares at the purse for a moment, hypnotized—Hawke suspects elves never have purses that heavy, not here—then darts a hand out and grabs it, slamming the door shut.

To be expected. Hawke turns and descends the stairs, shuffling down the beach. Hopes he’ll get to stone paving soon. The sand sinks under his feet and slows him down.

“Why did you give this to us?”

A girl’s voice, calling out from behind him. He turns. A young elf woman, standing in the doorway, waiting.

Why  _did_  he give it to them? That was a good amount of money. He could have used it for supplies, or, more importantly, bribes. He shrugs, wincing. That hurts too. “Seemed like the right thing to do, I suppose.”

“You’re not from Emirius, are you?”

Hawke shakes his head. “I’m from Kirkwall. Well, Ferelden, originally.”

“Where’s that?”

Right. She’s likely spent her whole life on this island. “Far, far to the south.”

The man joins her at the top of the stairs. “ _Ferelden?_  What are you doing up here?”

“Seeking refuge. Although I’ve made a damned mess of that.” He presses a hand to his chest. Blood oozes through his fingers. “Got my friend kidnapped. Now he’s stuck in that mountain and I have to get him out.”

“In the mountain? Then—he’s an elf?”

“He—yes. You…know about the mountain?” It took a lot of effort for Hawke to extract the truth about it from the Demon’s Head innkeeper. He did it, finally, leaving the man crumpled in the kitchen, cradling his two severed fingers.

“Everyone knows about it, we just don’t talk about it.” The elf folds his arms. “How’d you get hurt?”

“Failed rescue. Really, spectacularly failed. But I escaped and he’s still—Maker’s  _blood_ —“ He struggles to breathe. “—caught, and I  _have_  to get him out, I just—I have to. I’m nothing without him.”

The sand shifts under him, but he’s not strong enough to regain his balance, and he’s saved from falling only by the girl, who runs over and helps him to kneel. “Father!” she calls. “Human medicine won’t do it, he needs Alene!”

“Sulahn, you can’t just—“

“Look at these wounds! I haven’t seen this much blood since—he’s in bad shape, okay? He’ll die without her. And he just gave us all that money.”

“Fine, fine, go get her.” The man jogs down the steps.

Sulahn runs off down the beach as her father bends down to Hawke and helps him stand. “Damned humans. Don’t make me regret saving your life.”

He blinks and when he opens his eyes he’s inside the man’s house. Then he blinks again and he’s lying down. He rolls his head to one side. The man is there, shoving a couple of chairs out of the way. Hawke takes a deep breath. Pain. “Ser.”

The elf starts. “What did you call me?”

“May I take a nap on your table?”

“Hm. Can I say no?”

“You could. Er. But I don’t know if I can help it.”

“Fine. Take your nap.”

“Ser. What’s your name?”

He crosses his arms. “Melliel. Yours?”

“Hawke. Rowan Hawke.”

“Well, Rowan Hawke, you’re getting blood all over my table. If you survive the night, I expect you to buy me a new one.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Just pass out already, would you?”

Hawke closes his eyes.

——

“Hm.” The sound of jingling coins. “He was keeping all this back from you.”

“Alene, you can’t just rob the poor man blind.”

“Of course I can, girl. Do you see anyone stopping me?”

Hawke takes an experimental breath. Pain. He winces. “Ouch.”

“Chunks of flesh missing and he’s surprised it hurts. Maker save us all.” An unfamiliar voice, an old woman’s. “Well, if we’re done here, I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait,” Hawke gasps. He touches his chest. His fingers come away free of blood. “You—you fixed me?”

“Hardly. I closed you up, that’s all. You’ll need to avoid any strenuous activity for the next two to three weeks.”

“Not an option. But thank you anyway.” He sits up carefully.

“Are you really going to go into the mountain again?” Sulahn asks.

She’s sitting next to the table, her knees drawn up to her chest, bare feet half-hidden under her gray dress. Beside her is the unfamiliar elf woman—who must be Alene. The healer. She’s frowning at him, deepening the spiderweb wrinkles at her mouth and eyes. Hawke turns to the girl. “No, I know that won’t work. I’m going to have to wait until they bring him out. Or, if they don’t, give them cause to do it.”

“You’re really breaking someone out of the mountain.” Alene lifts an eyebrow. “But just your friend, am I right? No time to spare for the rest of those poor souls who disappear into the rock.”

Hawke meets her eye. “If I had all the time in the world there’s no way I could set them free on my own.”

“He’s right, Alene. They’ve got magic,” Sulahn says.

“Speaking of which.” Hawke nods at Alene. “You’re a mage.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Nonsense. I am simply skilled with herbal medicines.”

“That may be true as well, but herbal medicines wouldn’t put me back together like this. It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone. My sister was an apostate, back where we came from. And…one of my best friends was as well.” Anders. Hawke prays he’s safe, wherever he is. And happy. Or something close.

Alene watches him coolly. “It’s a ridiculous accusation. Now, I must be leaving.” 

Hawke calls “Thank you! Really!” as she walks out the door. She makes no motion to acknowledge him. Although…Hawke pats his hip. She did take the other coin purse with her.

Melliel is standing in the corner. “So you’re better.”

“Yes.” Hawke pauses, trying to think of a way to ask if he can stay the rest of the night.

Sulahn rolls her eyes. “It’s the middle of the night. Just let him sleep on the floor, Father.”

“I’ll pay you. For keeping a roof over my head. I promise.” Just a little more stealing. Hawke’s gotten used to it.

Melliel heaves a sigh. “I suppose we could use the money.”

——

The next morning, after a breakfast of steamed clams, Hawke leaves to head up to the second tier.

He heads down the strip a little ways until he hits cobblestones, then puts his back to the shoreline and starts walking. The sun is blinding even this early in the morning, slanting into his eyes, and seagulls wheel in the air above, their creaking cries following him as he strolls. He’s reversed the cloak so the guardsman insignia is on the inside, and he draws no eyes as he navigates the sandy streets, except those who catch sight of him and cross the street to avoid crossing his path. The flickers of fear confuse him for a moment until he realizes he’s sporting a spectacular glower. So he tries to suppress it, although it’s hard to calm himself with visions of Fenris interrupting his thoughts, of Jenelia’s smile, the crack of a whip, and Fenris writhing, Fenris in pain.

He stalks forward, weaving between buildings of warped wood or salt-stained stone, the wind off the ocean bearing him forward. At last he comes to the inland edge of the arc.

The wall separating the middle from the lowest tier is both better-maintained and considerably higher than the last wall he climbed. He follows it toward the side of the mountain, stopping only where it joins with the natural rock. Plain and innocuous, built into the side of the mountain is a small door. The entrance he used yesterday, in his failed attempt at rescue. Hawke quashes the shudder of anger that’s threatening to break apart his composure. No time to dwell on that. The structures here are far from the epicenter of business at the central shoreline, and there’s fewer people to spot him scaling the wall. Or to care.

The climb is agonizing. He has to stop a dozen times to heave in breaths and force the pain under control, cramming it down to a size he can manage. Alene was right to forbid this. With every inch, he feels as if something in his chest is going to tear right open.

It never does. At the top of the wall, he checks the injury site. No blood, no bruising. Just pain, spearing right through the middle of his chest. Like his heart’s being ripped out. He kneels there gasping.

Again, the thought of Fenris’s skin split with whip marks. Hawke presses his hands to his eyes. His own pain is inconsequential. He needs to focus.

From the wall he uses the rooftops. The houses in this tier are all far bigger than they need to be, bigger even than his estate back in Kirkwall. With their roofs nearly touching, he only needs to descend to the street a few times. He’s out of place here, certainly, and considers reversing his cloak again to display the official insignia but he doesn’t have the rest of the uniform to support it. So instead he just vanishes into the shadows, little more than a ghost. Of the vengeful variety.

At last he reaches his destination and scans for a good perch, settling at last on  a house modeled after a Tevinter palace. Shrunk down, it looks tacky and awkward, but Hawke doesn’t mind—it’s tall, so he can sit on the the roof without worrying about being seen from the street or any surrounding houses. So he crouches on a flat patch of shingles (edged in mother-of-pearl— _really?)_  and waits, watching the great iron doors in the side of the mountain. The second entrance to the complex, discovered during further inquiries after he’d wrung everything he could out of the innkeeper. This piece of information only cost his target one finger. Hawke figures if Fenris is to be brought out for any reason, it’ll be for the entertainment of the mages, and they’d use the second-tier exit. He’s prepared for a long watch. But patience is an undervalued weapon, and one he’s used well in the past.

So he waits. It’s cooler up here, the ocean breeze blowing over him unimpeded, picking up the hem of his cloak. Oddly enough, there aren’t any seagulls. Perhaps the mages have some charm in place to keep them away. The street is deserted, as it’s a residential district and the road dead-ends at the iron door.

There’s little to entertain him except his own thoughts. None of them are good. Mostly they’re about Fenris and what Hawke’s condemned him to. He tries to block them out, but it’s hard. Fenris has told him a little of what life was like under the ownership of a Tevinter mage—spontaneous bits and pieces, often when they were lying in bed together. As if he were relieved to at last say them aloud, but could only do so there, where he felt safest. Hawke remembers vividly.  _He would hurt me if business was going poorly. Without restraining me. Just to see me submit to it, I think. A reassurance of his own power._ Fenris’s back tensing against Hawke’s chest.  _I believed this was part of my purpose. I was pleased I could be useful to him._

And now they’re almost certainly hurting him again.

With an enormous effort of will, Hawke purges his mind of any thoughts whatsoever, emptying it entirely and repacking it with nothingness, of the sort that excludes any disruption. He was going to try and start formulating a plan, but if he lets his mind run he’s just going to think of Fenris again. And the anger is going to shake his composure to splinters and shreds. Instead he crouches there on the roof, still as a gargoyle, waiting for something he knows may not happen.

In the late afternoon, the doors swing open.

Hawke emerges from his self-imposed dormancy, focusing on the entrance to the mountain. A small group of guards marches out. And in the middle, a black-haired elf.

_Fenris._

Looking none the worse for wear, except the awful deadness in his face. Hawke skims over him (no time to dwell on that, he needs to gather information) and follows along the rooftops. Jenelia is with them too, in robes of dark cerulean today.  

Fenris is brought to a house close to the first-tier gate. Hawke leaps onto the roof. There’s a skylight and a few dormers to check. This is, after all, reconnaissance.

His first round yields a good estimate of the level of staffing at the home of a moderately high-level mage, and what kind of physical security they hire—not much; apparently they place a lot of faith in that wall he scaled this morning. He’s confident in his ability to slip inside without raising any alarms. But then there are the mages to worry about, and considering how easily Jenelia incapacitated him, he’s going to need a very good plan to deal with that. He’s making a second pass (can’t afford any mistakes this time) when he sees Fenris through one of the dormer windows.

The room is some kind of greenhouse, enormous skylights letting the light wash in to nourish two lush beds of plants. All of which are the same maroon-red color as the ones Hawke saw in the marsh. Between the beds the ornate tiled floor is bare, but for a broad, rusty grate that looks oddly out of place. The lord of the house stands at the far wall, a fat, middle-aged man, hair slicked back with so much wax the glare of sunlight off it is nearly blinding. Two elves flank him. Slaves, presumably. Jenelia and her troupe of guards lead Fenris into the room. Hawke sees his eyes darting about. Searching for an escape route. Hawke pulls himself back from the window. Can’t let Fenris see him and reveal that he’s breaking the vow he swore in the arena.

The window is cracked open, and muffled conversation drifts through it. Hawke leans forward again. Fenris is kneeling over the grate, and one of the elves beside him, linking his manacles to one of the bars. The other elf approaches the near bed. She hesitates, until the lord snaps something at her. Then she leans down and encircles her arms around one of the pots, hefting it and bringing it over to where Fenris is. The plant is squat and leafy, fernlike if not for the dark vermilion hue. Fenris shies back a little, his manacles pulling tight. He can’t get away from it. The first elf has a pair of sewing scissors, and she cuts away Fenris’s shirt, balling the discarded cloth in her hands.

The lord raises his hand and starts murmuring. For a moment nothing happens. Then Hawke sees roots climbing over the glazed lip of the pot. The lord smiles and takes a long, thin stick from where it hangs on the wall.

Fenris yanks again at his manacles. Hawke’s fingers dig into the sill. Fenris could get out of those in a second flat—but he can’t, not with the threat of reprisal hanging over his head.  

The roots fall past the lip, then start to wave in the air, searching blindly. Fenris crawls back on his knees as far as he can go, his arms pulled out in front of him. The lord has circled behind him, and twirls the stick he’d holding for a moment before bringing it down on Fenris’s back.

Even through the tiny crack in the window Hawke hears the cry of pain. Fenris shuffles forward now, trying to get away from the stick—the switch, Hawke realizes. It brings him closer to the plant. Another blur in the air, and the switch comes down again. This time there is no shout. Instead Fenris grits his teeth, and Hawke sees the hate in his eyes, vivid and alive. His tattoos flare, then settle into a faint glow.

But the hate gives way quickly to unrepentant fear.

One of the roots has reached his hand. As soon as it makes contact it branches and encircles his wrist, just below the metal cuff. The other roots swerve in the air and bend toward him, gathering over his hands, growing over the cuffs and up his arms. Fenris tries to shake them off, to no avail. The deep red lines tangle and anastomose.

The switch comes down again.

This time the lord doesn’t stop. Fenris jerks, ducks his head down. The lord smiles jubilantly. Jenelia sits in the corner, examining her nails. The two elves stand by the wall, staring at the floor.

Fenris yells in pain.

Over and over. He writhes, his lean body twisting. Welts rise on his brown skin, distorting the tattoos on his back. The roots holding him captive swell until they’re bulging, like leeches engorged with blood. Yet no blood beads around them, nor drips to the floor. They haven’t broken the skin.

The plant begins to grow.

Two feet high before, the leaves stretch into the air until they’re as tall as a man. The lord picks up his pace, and Fenris’s shoulders heave. Still the plant grows, roots rippling slowly, bulging more at every strike.

Hawke makes the connection. Agony. It feeds on agony.

Fenris is saying something. Pleading, his half-choked words just making it through the window to Hawke. His markings shimmer and seethe. The lord makes no sign of having heard him. The plant continues to rise, the great leaves bowing and starting to occlude Hawke’s view. He climbs over the dormer and peers down through the other side.

Something’s happening. The roots, where they’re in contact with Fenris’s tattoos (now blazing as bright as Hawke has ever seen), begin to shrivel. Brown patches appear on the plant, and it starts to steam. The lord is coming down on Fenris with the kind of viciousness that yanks Hawke back, unwilling, to the sorts of things he saw darkspawn do during the long, black days of the Blight. Just as the steam covers over the window, the lord stops, apparently noticing something is wrong. A few curling tendrils make it out of the crack before dissipating. Hawke throws himself behind the dormer, covering his mouth. Not quite fast enough. He caught the scent of it.

Burning flesh.

He has to fight the nausea down. It’s more than just the smell.

At last he returns to the window. Jenelia is working some kind of magic that’s sucking the steam down through the grate. It’s nearly gone, and when the last of it vanishes Hawke can see Fenris, coughing, retching at the smell.

His arms look largely untouched, save for a few depressions in the skin, like ligature marks. His back is covered in raised welts, the skin there an angry dark red. A few thin lines bead with blood. His shoulders heave and shake. He’s hyperventilating. Hawke wants to be there, wants to tell him it will be all right, to hold him until his breathing is under control again.

He can’t.

The lord comes over and crouches, taking Fenris’s face gently in one hand. For some reason that seems to relax him, the pain slipping from his expression, the tightness from his muscles. Then he tenses again, hard, and snarls something at the lord, a grin splitting his mouth. His lips shines red where he must have bitten it.

He’s rewarded with a sharp slap across the face. Two slaps. Bound as he is, he has no ability to retaliate. The lord goes around behind him, plucks the switch from where it lies fallen on the floor, and starts hitting him again, harder and faster than ever. Fenris shouts, jerking hard against the manacles, trying hopelessly to hide his raw skin from the blows. It’s only when Jenelia calls something to stop the man that Hawke realizes he’s got one hand on the window edge, ready to pull it open and make his presence known. He crams himself back around the corner of the dormer, only just peering around it again. Stupid. That could have cost them everything.

The lord, composed once more, talks with Jenelia. Fenris shivers and bleeds. The two elves stand by the wall, stock-still.

The plant is ruined, a decayed black mess sprawled over the floor. At a barked order the elves jump to attention and start cleaning it up. At first they jerk their hands away as if burned, but the lord shouts again and they continue their work, wincing. Another shout and one breaks away to release Fenris from the grate. He doesn’t move from where he kneels bent in half. Until a guard comes over, grabs his arm, and pulls him to his feet.

He stares ahead with the same deadness Hawke saw when they were bringing him over here.

The guards escort him from the room. Jenelia remains for a moment to receive a bag of coins from the lord, then departs. The lord goes to inspect the remains of his destroyed plant.

Hawke turns away from the window and leans against the side of the dormer. He stays there for a long time, unmoving. Eventually, as night begins to fall around him, he makes his return journey across the rooftops and over the wall, back to Melliel’s home. Sulahn starts to ask him how his day was, but breaks off when she sees his face. She serves him dinner in silence.


	6. Chapter 6

Fenris tilts his head slightly to the left. The stone nicks his ear and bounces off the wall to the floor.

“Oi! We said stop doing that!”

“As I recall, you told me to stop catching them,” Fenris says idly. “Not to stop moving.”

The guard jabs a finger through the bars. “So stop bloody moving, knife-ears.”

“As you wish.” Fenris gives him a cool smile. “Although I’d recommend avoiding my face. Jenelia plans to make plenty of money off me, and anything that lowers my value will surely be met with her displeasure.”

The guard’s friend taps his arm. “The elf’s right. We mark his face, she’ll come down hard. You know what she’s like.”

Fenris does, too. He’s gotten to know her very well over the first four days of his sentence. It is, at least, comforting to know that her primary concern is the integrity of the operation. This whole endeavor is less a sadistic act than an example being made of him. Not to mention the profits. Jenelia loves those.

“Can’t touch his face?” The guard smirks. “Fine. I’ll aim for his chest.”

A stone bounces off his bare chest. Hard. Another welt to add to the collection. Fenris flinches, then rolls his eyes. At least the humiliation is something different. 

Jenelia and her compatriots have obviously done this many times before. The breaking. They're good at pain, at making it hurt without splitting the skin or bruising (very much, anyway). Fenris could have sworn he was good at pain, too. But he’s not, or certainly not as good as they are. Perhaps it was only because he used to have someone beside him. Someone to ease the suffering.

Not anymore.

How did he bear it before? When he still served Danarius? Because he thought it was his purpose, of course. His place. And even when it was particularly bad, when the cruelty advanced beyond that twisted kind of sense, he could always dredge up some mistake or transgression and convince himself that the pain was a punishment. Then he could understand it, because it was deserved.

He could do that again. Convince himself he deserves this for killing Hawke. But he’s afraid to. That’s one of the pillars in the structure on which he was made, the one Danarius built in him to make of him a perfect slave. It was easy, without any annoying memories to get in the way, to put in the framework and watch him grow around it, like honeysuckle over a trellis. Fenris has spent close to fifteen years desperately trying to tear it down.

But he never could. So instead he buried it, and he refuses to dig it back up again. Not for Jenelia and her disgusting clients. He's already come close enough, on the first day, after that pig Rhesius switched his back and then held his face after, pretending affection. Fenris found himself leaning into the touch, finding comfort in it as he did when Danarius would stroke him after a punishment. But he caught himself at it, at least, and jerked away. Pathetic. 

He's thought of suicide. But Jenelia brought him to the marsh the first day. It was overflowing with plants like the one Rhesius had tried to sic on him. Feet sinking in the mud, he saw Quenta lying there, the roots dug into his flesh. Saw the one remaining eye roll with terror, lock on to Fenris. 

No escape.

Another stone strikes his chest. The second guard shakes her head and mutters something, then jolts to her feet. "My lady!"

Jenelia must be approaching. The first guard stands rigid and salutes. While they're distracted, Fenris snatches up the fallen rock and digs it into his chest, making a small gash. This pain he doesn’t mind. 

"Derrick." Jenelia sweeps into view, her jade robes trailing on the floor behind her. "I could have sworn I saw you throwing stones at my prisoner."

"My lady, I wasn't—" He sighs. "I'm sorry, my lady."

"If you marred his face or broke any skin, I'll take it out of your pay."

Fenris tips his head back and laughs. He was right. "I told you it was a bad idea."

Jenelia squints through the bars. "He marked you?"

Fenris swipes a finger across the cut and shows her the blood.  

She nods. "Hm. I think two weeks without pay should do it."

"I d—" Derrick drops his gaze. "Yes, my lady."

"Now unlock this door. We're taking him to the butchery."

Fenris's smile disappears. He doesn't like the sound of that. 

——

The butchery turns out to be a bare room with dirty, tiled walls and a large drain in the middle of the floor.  The lack of torture implements is somewhat reassuring. The bloodstains liberally staining the floor are not. 

Jenelia jerks her head. "Against the wall."

A command that has become familiar over the past few days. He braces himself against the tiles. Hears the swish behind him.

The whip lashes across his back. It's soft, designed to keep the skin whole. Which isn't to say it doesn't hurt. Fenris closes his eyes and pictures Hawke's face. Thinks of the smile he’d get whenever he was about to kiss Fenris. It’s a meager comfort, but a comfort all the same.  

The blows seem to be unending. Fenris presses his forehead into the stone. He doesn't try to stay quiet. Much more difficult than it's worth. _At least it's not Hawke._ The thought helps. 

It's hard to tell when it stops; his back is a mass of agony. But he hears Jenelia saying something, and the swishing sound is gone. Then freezing water is pouring down over his head. He cries out again in surprise. The cold is not kind to his battered skin. 

"Scrub him off," Jenelia is saying. "We need him presentable."

Interesting. He wipes water from his eyes, pushes the sodden black bangs out of his face. His voice is hoarse from yelling. "Whoring me out at last, Jenelia? I'd begun to suspect you were going to keep me for yourself."

"Are you trying to goad me?" She watches him for a moment, then shrugs. "I can't imagine why, but very well. Derrick, another fifty, please. And be _careful."_

Fenris squeezes his eyes shut again. A stupid mistake. He's making it worse needlessly. 

His legs give out at some point and he receives the last portion on his knees. When the lashes are finished, he shakes and shakes, no matter how hard he tries to stop. He grimaces, cursing his traitorous muscles. 

Jenelia walks over to him. "Or perhaps you were hoping you'd be beaten in place of servicing mages. Do you feel like you're betraying your dead lover?"

The grimace contorts itself into a mirthless grin. “He’s dead. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” He pushes himself to his feet, bracing himself against the wall with shaking arms. 

"Are you saying you can't be broken? You obviously haven't been in this business as long as I have."

"My old master tried it. It didn't take."

"You mean Danarius?"

Fenris flinches. He thought—

"Yes, I knew him. And you, long ago. It took me some time to recognize the tattoos, but there's no mistake." She traces one of the lyrium lines on his arm. Then her face opens with delight. "I was going to extract them from you when I’d wrung all I could out of you, but—such a waste! Oh, I'm a fool. I'll just extract your memories instead."

Fenris stares, struck dumb. No. He won't remember what it is to be a free man—won't remember making a life, having people who care about him, won't remember Hawke—

Jenelia gestures to Derrick and his partner. "Scrub him off. The girl outside has his clothes."

He needs to kill himself. So quick they can’t stop him, and in some manner so catastrophically damaging his body can't be used to feed the marsh. He’s silent as they scrape his skin dry with roughspun cloth. There has to be a way.

——

The clothes they put him in this time are expensive. Of course. It’s all about the presentation. Jenelia and her contingent of guards take him up to the highest tier this time. Fenris finds himself strangely calm. The highest tier, reserved for the Altus mages, reminds him of the district where Danarius lived. It is, at the very least, a familiar environment.

He still hasn’t thought of a way to kill himself. He supposes he has time. Jenelia said she wouldn’t take his memories until she’d wrung all the value she could out of him, so there’s still time. He just has to bear it until then. 

Then he thinks of what they’re going to do to him this evening. How can he bear that even once, let alone however many times Jenelia decides to lease him out?

The guards push open the front doors of the house. 

The place is enormous. Fenris can’t imagine any reason why anyone would need a house this big. He lived in two rooms of his mansion in Kirkwall. The rest gathered dust. Hawke would sometimes wander into them and have a pointed coughing fit. Fenris never did anything about it. A mirror slides by on one side, and Fenris stares determinedly ahead. For some reason he doesn’t think he could stand seeing himself right now. 

The first three days he looked for exits as they guided him through the hallways, putting together possible escape routes in his head. Not today. What’s the point? Jenelia’s got eyes on him at all times. And magic. They all have magic. The old hate flickers to life, the knee-jerk vitriol against any and all mages that he carried with him so closely for years. It was tempered by his time in Kirkwall, but it’s still there, as useless as it is now.

A set of shiny wooden doors, warm orange light spilling out from beyond. Derrick pushes them open and shoves Fenris forward. Jenelia sweeps inside.

A round of applause from the six mages in the room, all beaming at his entrance. Fenris wants to grab the nearest one and stick his hand through her throat. He leans forward slightly, bending his legs, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

Derrick grabs his arm and yanks him back into the corner. 

And there he stays, for a little while. Jenelia makes her rounds. Everyone drinks wine and laughs. He catches them looking at him hungrily. Waiting. He returns each with a murderous stare. They’re not as put off as he’d hoped.

He doesn’t want them to fuck him. Of course he doesn’t. It was never very hard in the past, except for the rare occasions when he was being hurt at the same time. He could just sort of wait for it to be over, and far preferred it over the spontaneous beatings that served to put him in his place, as if he needed the reminder. But then there was Hawke, and he’s exquisitely aware that this upcoming ordeal is going to be very difficult.

It's warm in here, warmer than it was outside. The walls are draped in rich tapestries, threaded in gold, turquoise, ivory and plum. Delicate copper lanterns hang from the ceiling, with little orange-yellow lights floating inside like caged fireflies. Jewelry flashes, every hand heavy with rings, wrists shining with intricate bracelets and cuffs. Laughter fills the air. Fenris’s anger pounds in his throat so hard he feels sick. They’re having a party. At some point, they’ll strip him and violate him and that will be the highlight. He wonders how long it’ll take. The mages in Minrathous used magic to enhance their stamina. They’ll be giving him orders the whole time. He considers disobeying. But he also recalls the electric shock Jenelia gave him, not half an hour after the fight with Hawke. As he lay there curled on the stone, she told him, _remember, whatever you are going through, there is always a worse pain_.

He thinks fleetingly of that old framework, buried deep underground. There’s no better time for him to make use of it than now. If only he could trust himself to be able to bury it again.

He and Hawke weren’t fucking very often; being on the run was exhausting both physically and mentally. But Hawke would just touch him all the time, little casual things, and each time Fenris was reminded that Hawke liked him. Loved him. Fenris wasn’t used to being touched with kindness. There were still mornings when he’d wake with a weight on his chest and blink sleepily down, expecting to see some old man drooling onto his skin. Instead he’d find Hawke (also drooling, but in a much more endearing way). And he’d stroke Hawke’s hair and wonder if this was what it was supposed to be like the whole time.

And now he’s back to being touched only for being hurt or used. Maybe he should ask Jenelia to erase his memories now. The remainder of his time here would be much less awful.

But that’s exactly the reason she’d refuse.

He did this for Hawke. Fenris takes a slow breath. That’s all he has to remember.

“A toast!” someone calls. The master of the house. “To Lady Jenelia. For finding us such an exquisite main event.”

Wine glasses are raised and emptied to the faint clink of jewelry. Fenris’s chest tightens. No, not the fear. He can’t deal with that too, on top of everything else.

“Thank you, my good friends!” Jenelia bows graciously. “Lord Castius, you sound quite eager.”

General chortling. Fenris feels nauseous, the heat of the room too thick, too close. He struggles for breath. The fear coils slickly in his gut.

“Well, then, why don’t we get started?” She beckons to Derrick.

Derrick closes a hand around Fenris’s arm and drags him to the middle of the room. Half-stunned, he doesn’t resist. The mages gather round. Fenris feels the pins and needles sweeping over him, the hot flush in his cheeks. _Just a couple of hours and it’ll be over_ , he thinks to himself. For today, anyway. He shifts, his skin unbearably sensitive all of a sudden, the mere brush of his clothing becoming intolerable. He has to get out of here. But he can't. The unbidden sensation of phantom hands on him, stroking his stomach, encircling his neck, grasping his thighs. He shakes his head convulsively, fighting down the urge to retch. Sweat prickles on his back and forehead.

All eyes on him. He takes a half-step back as if there were somewhere he could hide himself. There isn't. They’re ready to tear into him but Jenelia’s putting on a show, and she takes control. “Remove your shirt for us, would you, Fenris?” she says.

He’s already vulnerable enough, and he hesitates, unable to bring himself to obey. His hands simply will not rise from his sides. This isn’t right. He’s a man, not a commodity. He makes a feeble effort to think of something to snap at her, as he did to Rhesius. Her anger would be a welcome break from this decadent nightmare. But his mind is in pieces and nothing comes. Instead he stares at Jenelia dumbly with his chest growing tighter and tighter, knowing what she's about to do.

Jenelia sighs and gestures in his direction. The electricity shoots through him from head to toe, and he shouts, collapsing to the floor. A sincerely awful variety of pain. At least it was only a split-second’s worth, and it works, summoning the reflex of compliance. He stands and starts to unbutton his fine silk shirt. His hands are shaking. That’s not the electricity. That’s terror. He wills it to stop. The mages will pick up on it and use it to smother him.

He finishes with the buttons, smoothing the hem for a moment before slipping the shirt off his shoulders. Under the welts, his tattoos are glowing in response to the fear. Murmuring amongst the mages. They know he’s dangerous. And here he is, ready to get down on his knees and ask their permission to service them. What a thrill. Fenris’s whole body is trembling now. Pain has been a constant companion, even through his years in Kirkwall; there was never a dearth of people trying to kill him, for one reason or another. This isn't like pain. Not something he can rationalize or predict. It’s the stealing of something precious to him. The intimacy he had with Hawke. The trust. Now viciously trampled upon. His head spins, and he wavers, unsteady. The heat chokes him, filling his lungs like mud. He doesn’t deserve this. Lord Castius steps forward, and Fenris watches him, paralyzed, struck dumb. He _doesn’t deserve this._

Castius grasps Fenris’s hip, leaning in to scrape his teeth down Fenris’s neck.

Fenris claps a hand over his mouth, bending forward. His eyes prick at the burning in the back of his throat, and he coughs, swallows the bile with effort. Castius smirks. “Inexperienced, are you?”

Jenelia snorts. “This one? Hardly. Apologize, Fenris.”

 _Apologize for not wanting to be violated._ He lowers his head and mutters “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Jenelia prompts.

He flinches but obeys. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. “I’m sorry, master.”

“Better.” She folds her arms. “The problem is, he was in love. With that man Carver. Weren’t you, Fenris?”

 _Carver._ Hawke’s alias. “Yes.”

“I’m betting he told you he loved you back, didn’t he?”

Fenris swallows. He can't bear to think about it in this place. “Yes.”

“Come now, Fenris, you can’t tell me you really believed that. You were a slave. Who would fall in love with you?”

He recognizes the question; he used to ask it of himself, before he figured out the truth. That he was valuable and worthy of love. Of Hawke. “He did love me.”

“You must stop deluding yourself. I’m sure you gave your body to him freely, isn’t that right? And all he had to do to get it was whisper a few sweet words in your ear. Of course he was lying.”

“No I wasn’t.”

Fenris reacts reflexively, hooking a foot around Castius’s knee to make him buckle and then grasping his head hard, lifting and jerking. Castius’s neck makes an ugly snapping sound. 

One taken care of. Fenris takes a half-second to gather information. The mages are panicking. Hawke is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, there one moment and a shadow the next, harrying and interrupting the mages as they try to get spells off. But something seems off—they’re slow in casting. Too slow for their level of skill.

Fenris doesn’t know how long that’ll last. It’s time to act. No one’s looking at him anymore, so he goes after the nearest target, a middle-aged man already bleeding from the lip. He’s strong for a mage and sneaks an elbow into Fenris’s ribs before Fenris can get a grip on his skull. But he hasn’t spent the past ten years fighting for his life, and he’s easily dispatched. The two nearest realize they have a second opponent, and Fenris turns on them with a snarl, happy to confirm their fears that he is, in fact, dangerous.

They fall quickly, their invocations clumsy and slow, too slow to stop him. He searches for his next enemy. There are none left standing. The mages’ blood is warm on his hands.

 _Hawke._ He lurches forward, then halts, wiping the blood off on his trousers. Hawke doesn’t particularly like violence. He scans the room. There, behind the ottoman. Fenris stumbles toward it, tripping over bloodied corpses, their throats slit, eyes open wide.

Hawke is crouched, one foot on Jenelia’s chest. Her hands are pinned to the floor, a dagger through each palm. Hawke’s squeezing her throat, tracing a circle around her eye with a small knife. “How about an eye?” he asks, with dead calm. “Is that a fair enough price for selling hundreds of lives? Maybe not.”

Fenris strides over and grabs Hawke’s wrists. “What are you _doing?”_

Hawke looks up at him, confused. “I—what’s wrong? She deserves this. Worse.”

“It doesn’t matter! Hawke, you don’t like hurting people—“ Fenris feels now, more than any other time in the past week, as if something vital is being stolen from him. “This isn’t you!”

Jenelia wheezes. Hawke tightens his grip. “Maybe it is now,” he mutters.

Fenris leans suddenly on Hawke’s wrist, forcing the knife into Jenelia’s eye to the hilt. She jerks once, then falls still.

Hawke lets go of her. “I…right. We need to get out of here.”

Derrick is lying lifeless outside in an alcove outside the door (Fenris allows himself a savage twinge of satisfaction), and Hawke drags him into the room, appropriating his helm, cloak, and tabard. Fenris slips his shirt back on with haste. The entire outfit is black, at least, so the blood he wiped on his trousers won’t show. Hawke takes his arm, and he tries to look sufficiently beaten-down as they stride through the halls. His heart pounds so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t leap straight out of his chest. But no one stops them.

Once outside, Hawke points them in the direction of the mountain. “I’m sorry I took so long. Alene needed a few days to make the poison.”

Twilight, the sky deep blue-purple, the breeze cool on his face. Free. He can hardly believe it. “Poison?”

“In the wine. It had to be subtle. Just to slow their wits a little so they couldn’t cast spells quick enough.”

Hawke is solemn. Not what Fenris expected after this reunion. “How did you know where I’d be?”

“Followed you. Each day. Tracked one of your guards down and bribed him for the next location.”

“You—“ Fenris halts. “You followed me? Did you see them—“

He breaks off. That’s why Hawke’s got that look on his face. Hawke goes to take Fenris’s hand, then stops. They’re still in public. “The first and second days I saw. The third there wasn’t a window, Fenris, I’m so sorry you had to—“

Fenris starts walking again abruptly. “I told you not to come back. You swore to me.”

“I lied. I couldn’t condemn you to that. Not you.”

“Then—“ This is ridiculous. Hawke doesn’t deserve his anger. “I’m sorry. Thank you, Hawke. Really. Let’s just—get off this cursed island.”

“Actually, I have a plan for that.” Hawke squeezes his arm gently.

A touch without any pain behind it, or the intent of pain. At last, Fenris begins to relax.

——

Hawke says they’re stealing a boat. However, he hands an enormous purse of coins over to the elf holding the line so Fenris suspects there is something else at work here. “I guess this’ll do,” the man says. “Goodbye, Fereldan. Hope you don’t mind the smell of fish.”

Fenris is absolutely certain he’d stow away on a ship packed with old garlic and skunk cabbages for a chance to leave the island. He climbs into the fishing boat, going forward to let out the jib. Hawke points them south, then east, around the back side of Emirius. Past the glistening red salt marsh. Fenris doesn’t know exactly where they’re going. Probably the Anderfels again, further north, where they might not have soldiers waiting for them. The fishing boat’s big enough to make the trip, and they’ve got the supplies this time.

Once they’re beyond the northern tip of the island, Fenris finds he’s veering dangerously close to something resembling a breakdown, so he ties off the jib sheet and sits beside Hawke on the bench jutting out of the transom. Hawke figures it out quickly enough and secures the mainsheet so he has an arm free to wrap around Fenris’s back.

Fenris leans into Hawke’s shoulder. There’s a soft murmur of “I love you” in his ear. It’s extraordinarily comforting. The impending breakdown recedes, vanishing into some dark corner from which he hopes it never emerges again. After a little while he goes forward to man the jib once more.

The wind dies down some as the moon rises, and the seas are, if not calm, at least less choppy than they were on the journey to Emirius. The sails luff occasionally, but their pace remains brisk. Fenris watches the stars emerge from behind wisps of cloud, the near-full moon hanging low in the sky. He can’t wait any longer. “Hawke.”

“Hm?”

“Would you really have put out her eyes?”

Hawke’s gaze shifts past Fenris, out to sea. “I saw what she put you through.”

Fenris snorts. “Not even a fraction. You weren’t inside the mountain.”

“Then she deserved it! I don’t know why you stopped me, I’m surprised you didn’t want to do it yourself!”

“It doesn’t matter if she deserved it, Hawke, you don’t _like_ hurting people! You should have killed her and had done with it!” He ties off the jib sheet and goes to Hawke. “If Varania were here with us, right now, would you still stop me from killing her?”

Hawke opens his mouth to speak and says nothing. His hold on the tiller slackens, and the boat starts to yaw. “I…”

“Hawke.” Fenris kneels in front of him. “They are taking you from me.”

“They?”

“Everyone. Everything we’ve seen that’s unfair and cruel, that you used to fix but can’t anymore, all the terrible things that keep happening to us even though we’ve done nothing wrong. You are being dragged into the dark. They are taking you and I need you, Hawke. Please.” Fenris takes his hand gently.

“I…I never thought about it.” Hawke is quiet for a moment, then pulls the tiller in again, correcting their course. “But you’re right. I didn’t realize it. I’m sorry, Fenris. I’ll try to be better.” He leans forward and kisses Fenris on the mouth.

The intimacy. Fenris wants it badly, to stay close to Hawke, but the wind keeps changing and he needs to attend to the jib. So he starts to rise.

Hawke catches him. “Fenris.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let them. Take me, I mean. I don’t know if I can do this on my own.”

Fenris is still for a moment. “I…I will try, Hawke. As much as I can.” Then he goes forward again. Thinks of one more thing. “In return.”

“What—you want a _reward_ for keeping me from turning into a soulless monster?”

“I’m not in the business of charity, Hawke,” he answers drily. “Would you at least try to start smiling again? _I_ certainly do it rarely enough.”

Hawke starts to grin. “You can’t afford to. It would cut too much into your brooding time.”

Fenris cocks an eyebrow. “I do not brood.”

“How do you sleep at night knowing you tell such egregious lies?”

“It is not a lie! I…reflect.” They’ve had this argument a dozen times but he’s not tired of it yet.

“Yes, about sad things. That makes it brooding.”

“How do you know I’m not thinking about happy things?”

“Because when you do that, you smile without realizing it so I can tell. And sometimes you blush right up to the tips of your ears and then I can _definitely_ tell what kinds of things you’re ‘reflecting’ on—“

“ _That_ is—“ He pauses, then mutters, “…is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who spends all their free moments staring at you.” Hawke shrugs. 

The jib, hauled in, catches the wind and fills out. Fenris heads to the rear of the boat and sits at Hawke’s feet, leaning against his legs. He’ll be the one saving Hawke, it seems. He stares out at the sea. Wonders just how in the world he’s meant to do that.


End file.
